


Penthouse in the Sky

by sassmaster_tiresias



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of, it's not explicitly stated it's just a fact of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 11:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassmaster_tiresias/pseuds/sassmaster_tiresias
Summary: Jack hasn't been the same since the Refuge.





	Penthouse in the Sky

Things hadn’t been the same since Jack came back from the Refuge. Everyone had been treating him with a combination of carefulness and hero-worship. Jack Kelly, the boy who escaped from the Refuge. Hell, Crutchie had even seen the ever-unflappable Race staring at Jack in awe once or twice when he thought no one was looking. And Jack just smiled through it all, ruffling the littler kids’ hair and smirking at the older ones.

Nobody wanted him to know what things had been like while he was gone. Crutchie and Race had done their best to hold down the fort in Jack’s absence, but just the fact that _Jack_ had been taken to the refuge had done a number on the kids at the lodging house. Jack Kelly was supposed to be untouchable. He was their leader, their protector. If Snyder and his thugs could take Jack, then were any of them really safe?

A veil of despair had fallen over the entire lodging house in Jack’s absence. The kids were all skittish, most too scared to sell alone for fear of getting caught too. There was a constant look of panic to Race’s eyes. He still went out to Sheepshead to sell every day, but the first thing he did when he got back in the evening was count heads to make sure no one was missing. 

With Jack gone, Crutchie was seized by a fierce determination. Not only to fill Jack’s role as Manhattan’s leader, but to bring Jack home. No one had ever spent more time lurking in the alleys around the Refuge, scoping the place out and trying to find a way to get in. He stayed there, peeping around corners and hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack through one of the barred windows, until Race’s headcount proved him to be missing and Race came to get him.

And then, Jack was back. And things weren’t normal—Jack jumped at loud noises sometimes and jerked away if someone touched him too suddenly. But he tried his best, and he was back, and that was all that mattered. Race stopped counting and the kids were all just a boisterous and energetic as usual, if slightly quieter when Jack was in the room.

The only thing that didn’t go back to normal… was Jack and Crutchie.

Sure, things were fine during the day. For all intents and purposes, Jack was his old self in the light of day. He cracked jokes at the Delanceys’ expense, he told the headlines on the streets—embellishing where necessary—and he slung his arm around Crutchie’s shoulder whenever he was near.

But as soon as the sun started to set, Jack became the boy from the Refuge. The circles under his eyes darkened with the sky, and the skin on his cheeks seemed to hang like the sheets on the clotheslines. Whenever they were at the lodging house, he fled from the bunkroom out onto the fire escape as quick as he could escape the attention of the others. And in his wake, Crutchie would climb the ladder, holding his crutch under his arm and pulling himself up one rung at a time.

They didn’t talk, was the problem. It wasn’t that Crutchie expected Jack to talk about the Refuge—no one should have to relive that experience. Once on the rooftop, though, Jack’s lips were sealed. He’d sit with his sketchbook in his lap, drawing harsh lines with a ragged piece of charcoal. He filled his pages with sketches so horrifying that Crutchie couldn’t even bring himself to peer over Jack’s shoulder. But no matter how hard Crutchie tried to get him to talk, just one word, he refused. Only once it had gotten too dark did he say anything, and even then it was only to tell Crutchie that he should go back down for bed. Jack never followed.

So even though Jack was back, Crutchie still missed him like he was gone. Every night as he laid in his bunk and looked across the where Jack should be—the mattress bare, the pillow and blanket having been dragged up to the roof—his heart ached for Jack. He just wished Jack would tell him what was wrong. All he wanted was to help, but Jack wouldn’t even talk to him.

One day, Crutchie was sitting across from Jack on the rooftop, flipping through yesterday’s pape and listening to Jack’s charcoal scrape furiously across the page. It was getting harder and harder to read by the minute as the light faded, and when Jack’s scratching stopped, Crutchie braced himself for what he knew was coming.

“‘S about time you were turnin’ in for the night, eh, Crutch?” Jack said, his voice quiet.

Crutchie shook his head and rustled his paper, stubbornly staring at the page even though he could no longer read it. “Nah, think I’m gonna stay up here tonight. Nice breeze.” He flicked his eyes up for a moment, catching Jack watching him before he looked away again.

“Gets pretty cold up here,” Jack said. “Don’t wantcha gettin’ sick.”

At that, Crutchie couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed his pape aside and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s the middle of July, Jack.” Now, with Crutchie glaring across the dimly lit roof, Jack wouldn’t meet his eye. “What’s the matter, huh? Suddenly ya don’t want to sleep near me anymore? Never had a problem before, but suddenly you’re out here on the damn roof and ya don’t want anything to do with me.”

Jack twiddled his charcoal between his fingers, staring down at his open sketchbook. “It ain’t that, Crutch. It ain’t you.”

Grabbing his crutch, Crutchie pushed himself to his feet and made his way across to Jack. As Crutchie sat down beside him, Jack pulled the sketchbook to his chest, but he didn’t shy away, which was good enough for Crutchie. For now.

“Is it cause of… the Refuge?” Crutchie asked, and when he said the word Jack visibly flinched.

Crutchie held his hand out, keeping it where Jack could see it for a second, giving him a second to react before he pushed the charcoal from Jack’s fingers and laced his own through them. “Jack,” he said, but Jack only grunted. “Jack, look at me for a second, come on.”

Jack’s eyes lifted, peering out at Crutchie from under his lashes. His mouth was set in a pout, which was so typically Jack that Crutchie couldn’t help but smile. There was his Jack. He schooled his expression, though, and squeezed Jack’s hand.

“Ya know you don’t gotta be afraid of talkin’ to me, Jack,” he said. “Is it… is it the bunkroom? I seen the… the pictures you draw of that place. I get not wantin’ to be inside.”

Jack shrugged and looked away again. “I mean, yeah. I guess it’s just… it’s small in there, Crutchie.” He shivered and the thought of it and Crutchie couldn’t help but scoot himself closer, pressing himself flush against Jack’s side. “‘S like I can’t _breathe_ when I’m in there.”

His thumb stroking across the back of Jack’s hand, Crutchie nodded. “I get it, Jack. That’s okay.” They fell into silence for a moment until Crutchie cleared his throat and asked. “But why dontcha want me up here with you?”

Crutchie could feel his heart shattering when Jack’s hand pulled out of his and Jack moved off to the side. He set the sketchbook down between them, definitively keeping Crutchie at bay.

“I… I don’t need ya to sleep up on the roof with me, Crutchie. It’s real windy up here, and I know our mattresses down there ain’t great but, the roof’s worse. I don’t wantcha to mess your leg up, ya know, and…” Jack trailed off. He was staring down into his lap, where his hands were clutching at the fabric of his pants.

“Jack,” Crutchie said quietly.

In a flurry of motion, Jack was on his feet, pacing across the roof away from Crutchie. “I get nightmares, alright? Every night.”

Groaning, Crutchie took his crutch back up and raised himself to his feet. He took a few steps forward, but stayed out of Jack’s path. “Well why dontcha let me help ya?”

Nightmares were nothing new for the two of them. They both had dreams of their days before the lodging house—days when the cold reached all the way to their bones and seeped into their empty stomachs. Crutchie dreamt of the hazy days of the fever, when he couldn’t remember anything but pain and fear. Jack was haunted by the deaths of his parents. If asked to, they probably couldn’t even count the number of times Crutchie had woken up to Jack already curled behind him, an arm around Crutchie’s waist because he’d heard him whimpering in his sleep. Or just how many times Jack was awoken by Crutchie’s fingers sliding through his hair, easing him out of whatever dream had him tossing and turning.

Jack shook his head. He stopped in his tracks, dragging his fingernails back across his scalp and making his hair stick up everywhere. “It ain’t the _same_.” He stalked towards Crutchie, his hands waving out of a frustration that couldn’t be explained with words. “I feel like I’m still back there. I open my eyes, and I can still see it. Still _smell_ it and feel it all around me.”

As soon as Jack was in reach, Crutchie shifted his whole weight onto his good leg and reached out with both hands, letting the crutch clatter to the rooftop. He caught Jack by the shoulders, then slid his hands up the sides of Jack’s neck until they were on either of Jack’s cheeks. He dragged Jack towards him, and when he wobbled a little, Jack’s hands came out to hold him by the hips and steady him, despite the lost expression on Jack’s face.

“Let me help,” he said, voice completely steady. Jack shook his head, tears welling in his eyes, and tried to pull away but Crutchie just held on tighter. He swiped away the tears that managed to escape. “No, Jack, listen. Whatever it is, however bad it is, I don’t care. I just wanna help. Just wanna be up here with ya.”

Defeated, Jack dropped his head down onto Crutchie’s shoulder. One of Crutchie’s hands slid around to the back of Jack’s neck and the other combed through his hair. “Yeah, alright.” He turned his face into Crutchie’s neck, pressing his nose there for a moment before he stood upright with a huff. “I’m bringin’ a mattress up here though, alright? You ain’t sleepin’ on the ground.”

With a quick peck to Crutchie’s forehead, Jack slipped from his grasp and made his way down the ladder. Crutchie busied himself picking up the scattered pages of his paper and folding them up. He picked up Jack’s sketchbook, carefully not looking in it, and tucked it away with all of Jack’s other drawings where he’d been keeping them by the chimneys.

A few minutes later, the ladder clanged with footsteps and Jack appeared back over the edge. He hauled himself up onto the rooftop, dropping down to his knees and reaching back down.

“Race,” he shouted, “will ya shut up and just pass it to me?” The top of a mattress peaked up and Jack seized it, yanking it up and tossing it behind him onto the roof. “Pillow,” he commanded, and caught the one that came flying towards his face. He snatched the blanket that appeared close behind it.

“Have fun, you two!” came Race’s voice from down below. Jack flipped him off as he turned and started pushing the mattress into a corner with his foot.

Crutchie grabbed Jack’s pillow and blanket where they were balled up off to the side and made his way over to help. They got everything spread out on their one mattress, then Jack stood there awkwardly, wiping his hands on his pants.

Tossing his hat down beside the mattress, Crutchie undid the top couple buttons of his button down and pulled it off over his head. He grinned up at Jack. “Well, come on.” He sat down on the mattress and scooted over to the far side, leaving enough room for Jack to lie down next to him.

Boots off and stripped to his underclothes, Jack laid down next to Crutchie. He folded his hands on his chest and laid there stiff as a board.

Crutchie reached out, laying a hand on Jack’s arm. “You don’t gotta stay over there if you don’t want to.”

Jack was still for another moment before he took Crutchie’s hand in his and rolled over.

Their joined hands on Crutchie’s chest, Jack rolled until his face was buried in the crook of Crutchie’s neck once more. Crutchie slid his other arm under Jack’s neck, cradling him closer and stroking his hair again. Jack let out a deep breath as he sank into Crutchie’s hold. His free hand searched out the fabric of Crutchie’s undershirt and held on like it was a lifeline.

Finally, they were settled, Jack’s breaths brushing across Crutchie’s skin where his shirt collar got rucked down.

Crutchie rubbed the fluffy strands of Jack’s hair between his thumb and forefinger, then tilted his head to kiss Jack’s brow.

“Is this okay?” Crutchie asked.

Jack nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. Instead, he just pressed himself closer, clenching his eyes closed against the tears that threatened to spill.

When Jack woke up in the middle of the night, cries of desperation clawing out of his mouth, Crutchie was there. Crutchie was there with his fingers petting through Jack’s hair, soothing him out of the panic that had seized him in his sleep. Crutchie was there, his forehead pressed against Jack’s, staring into his eyes so that he could see that he was there with him. Crutchie was there, with his lips mere centimeters from Jacks, whispering that he was safe and he was out of there, and Crutchie was never going to let anyone hurt him ever again.

And after a while, Jack’s desperate gasps for breath turned into sobs. So Crutchie kissed his tears away.

The night after that. And the night after that. And the night after that, and for all the nights in all the months ahead, when Jack woke up with screams trapped behind his teeth, Crutchie was there.


End file.
